Missing Dixie (Neon Dreams #3)(5)
His text is the first thing I see when I wake up and check my phone out of habit on a random Thursday afternoon. I worked late last night, so even though it’s nearly three in the afternoon, this is basically breakfast time for me.
For months I’ve checked my phone day and night. Part of me was waiting for this, the opening, the opportunity to see her again and show her that while I’m still a work in progress, I’m trying, improving, and growing closer to becoming the type of man she deserves. The other part of me is dreading it.
After our band sort of unofficially broke up after Austin MusicFest, Dallas went solo, Dixie went home, and I went straight to my probation officer to find out how I could right my many, many wrongs.
Trouble is, I didn’t exactly tell Dixie that. I let her believe I was on tour with Dallas.
When I saw Dixie Lark three months ago, she used her last words to me to tell me right where to go. I’ve left her voice mails, sent texts, asked repeatedly for the chance to explain what she saw—what I did and why I didn’t contact her sooner. When Dallas went missing in Rio, I stopped by to check on her but she didn’t look at all happy to see me in her time of grief. So even though I wanted nothing more than to hold and comfort her, I saw McKinley there and decided it would be best if I kept my distance. Christmas and New Year’s came and went and they were the first ones I didn’t spend with her and Dallas since I met them ten years ago. Dallas invited me to his and Robyn’s place but I declined, choosing to work instead. If it had been her asking me to come, then I would’ve quit my job to be there if necessary, but all I’ve gotten from Dixie Lark is radio silence.
I don’t even blame her.
Groaning, I stretch as far as my back will allow and lumber out of my bed. After a quick shower, I throw on a T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans and step into the lace-up work boots I rarely bother to lace.
Glancing at my reflection on my way out, I note that I should have shaved my face, but I would’ve been late and I’m not really in the mood for pissy Dallas at the moment.
I glance down at the kitchen table and see a notice about the rent on the trailer being overdue. Usually I scrape up enough to keep it paid on time, but I’ve been saving my money lately. My mom is rarely even here and this isn’t where I plan to spend the rest of my life.
My plan for becoming a worthwhile human being has three major components.
The first is paying for all past mistakes in full so those f*ckers don’t sneak up on me. I’m fulfilling all the requirements of my probation to a T. The second is making a regular effort to reach long-term goals involving the things that matter, like money, music, and my life. The third is finding a way to be completely honest with Dixie—about everything.
It’s the third one I’m struggling with the most.
The rehearsal space isn’t too far away but it’s beginning to mist outside so I walk to the truck stop a few blocks down the road and check for Mr. Kyung. He’s on the phone, speaking Korean with an earpiece in, when I step inside.
Without even acknowledging that he sees me, he tosses a pair of keys into the air—lobbing them in a perfect arc into my hands.
“Komawoyo,” I call out as I turn to leave. “Bring her back before closing.”
He waves me off while continuing his conversation.
He’s one of the very few people on the planet who actually trust me.
When I was nine I got caught stealing a pack of cheese from Kyung’s. He took one look at me, saw that I was filthy and most likely starving half to death, and told me he wouldn’t turn me in if I would work off what I owed and promise never to steal another thing. Most days I swept the floors, restocked drinks, and delivered groceries and food orders to nearby houses I could reach on foot. Every time I walked in the door his seventy-something-year-old mother insisted on making me enough food for two meals. Now that I’m older I’m pretty sure it was just his way of providing for a kid he felt sorry for, but I still appreciate that he did it without making me feel ashamed. He made it clear that in his family a man is nothing without his pride. I have always been thankful that he allowed me to keep what little bit I had.
When I was sixteen and still “working” off a five-dollar seven-year-old debt, Mr. Kyung bought an old red Isuzu pickup and hired me officially as the delivery guy, but it was also officially under the table.
In some ways, the man of small stature and few words is like a father to me. I never stole another thing. Since getting the job at the Tavern I haven’t needed the extra cash but he still lets me borrow the truck and come by for a meal now and then. No questions asked. His mother passed away a few years ago and his wife started doing the cooking.
“It’s not as good as my mother’s was,” he told me quietly in his still slightly broken English over some type of dumpling soup he called manduguk, “but if you stop coming by it will hurt Lin’s feelings and I’ll have to hurt you.”
Again, I don’t know if he was just worried I wouldn’t eat otherwise, or if it really would have hurt his wife’s feelings or what, but I still come in every now and then.
I drive the barely running truck back to my place, load up my kit just in case Dallas has more than a simple meeting in mind, then head to the rehearsal space in downtown Amarillo. I listen to my favorite rock station on the way, concentrating hard on the music and wishing I had the drumming chops of Keith Moon or John Bonham, while trying to keep the anxiety over seeing Dixie at bay.